Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Rusalka reunites with the lover of her dreamsPhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Lui: I had a unique experience with Rusalka at the Met.
Settling into the opening bars of the overture, Mark Elders’ subdued
rendition of Dvořák’s score lulled me into a
state of relax in which the outside world slowly faded into the background.
Although I was really ready for a darker, more uncanny take on this rather
visceral and often folkloristic soundscape that is as leavened with joy as it is
laden with portentous foreboding, nevertheless I found myself immersed in a
parallel musical universe. No passage embodies these dynamic dichotomies more
than the prancing chorus of water nymphs with their refrain of “Ho, ho ho!”
that is both appealing and strange. In any case, the peaceful salve of
the luscious music hit the spot.

I wish I could say the same thing for the
staging as it proceeded to set the tone for the story. Mary Zimmerman’s
new production really left me lukewarm in the First Act. Rather than a
naturalistic set, Daniel Ostling’s design presents the woodland grove of
the water nymphs as a claustrophobic rectangular room with the sky and trees
painted on the walls. The hardwood flooring did nothing to suggest an outdoor
environment and the lake of the water sprite was nothing more than a
rectangular opening in the floor. The only even semi-realistic detail is the
tree in the middle of the stage on which Rusalka will perch during her Song
to the Moon. The blatant staginess of the overall design made this lone
naturalistic detail seem out of place.

I see a starknessPhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Lei: Zimmerman’s production looked like the Met ran out of
money from the get go. The first act is all about the setting in the woods,
lakes and rivers. While I do not necessarily need something overly
naturalistic, plopping a tree in the middle of a hardwood floor with an uneven
hole and scattering a bunch of round plastic water lilies came across as a
glorified rehearsal, with hand me down props.

The Natural world housed in a roomPhoto credit: Ken Howard

Water is such an important plot element. Rusalka
is a nymph made of water and falls in love with the Prince while he’s swimming
the lake she inhabits. In this production, we need to believe that the lake is
that spot where a handful of floorboards came off. To make things worse, when
the Water Sprite comes out of the “lake,” poor Eric Owens had to jump awkwardly
on those plastic leaves and then roll himself on the ground back to the hole in
the floor. Again, it looked like a rehearsal in a run down theater, really
painful to watch. Hardwood floor scattered with yellow plastic flowers was also
all we got for the supposedly romantic encounter between the newly transformed
Rusalka and the Prince. I’m not against minimalism, but this one seemed to lack
any concept.

Rusalka invokes the moonPhoto credit: Sara Krulwich

Lui: One of the clever touches, though, was the dress
Rusalka wears when we first encounter her. Before she makes a deal with the
witch Jezibaba to get her legs, she is burdened by a long trailing “aquatic”
dress covered in water lilies that she struggles to move in. And indeed she is
forced to swing it around ponderously until her transformation occurs.

I really only began to give the production
the benefit of the doubt in Act II, when the ideas behind certain conceits
revealed themselves. The action has now moved to the Prince’s palace. The same
rectangular space including the same wide wide beam hardwood floors, that once
“housed” the natural setting, now redressed, stands for a modest princely
parlor.

They are still skimping on the flourishes of
grandeur, but the parallel shape of the space seems significant. In one corner
is a heaping mound of deer and antelope skulls all with glorious antlers that
stand like a neglected pile of hunting trophies, denoting an abusive human
attitude toward nature. The thematic tensions begin to emerge. In Zimmerman’s
take this seems to be a story about the relationship between human society and
the natural world.

Lei: It is true that the Act II sets looked a bit more
together and engaged more the eye but I don’t see how they conveyed any strong
vision. I did not necessarily got the man vs. nature theme, seems like a lot to
ask from a pile of antlers.

Rusalka is out of her element in the human worldPhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Lui: Having gained a human form but having lost her voice in
the process, Rusalka is now out of her element amidst the humans. Austin
McCormick choreographed an extended dance scene that plays out during the
ballet interlude in which we see Rusalka struggling to find her place in this
new world. She wavers between fascination and terror as she takes in the
opulent display of a dozen or so male and female dancers decked out in elegant
evening wear who enact all the rituals of human courtship with its formal
introductions, posing and posturing, seductions, and being swept off your feet
by the consummation of love. Rusalka has a hard time finding her footing in the
machine-like rapture of the social system that drives the human world, which
the choreography beautifully enacted through movement and dance.

I finally warmed up to an interpretation of
the idea behind the production as a whole in the Third Act, which I found most
moving of all. Although I wouldn't call it terribly compelling theater in terms
of spectacle, I nevertheless came to appreciate the subtle ways it posed an
interpretative problem with which to engage.

All is askew and in tatters by the endPhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

We now return to the woodland glade that has
been disfigured almost beyond recognition. The set, which have been reduced to
nothing more than a set, is now intentionally crooked. The walls with their
painted forest scene have been shredded revealing the raw two-by-fours of the set’s
skeleton, an intentional metatheatrical nod to the fictiveness of the space of
the stage dressed with the simplest of sets.

The suggestion is that the destruction of the
sets reflect Rusalka’s subjective perception of the world she once called home.
Everything has changed now since she has been disabused of her illusions. In
fact, in retrospect, in Egan to think that her subjective understanding was
projected onto the natural world from the very beginning. When she sang to the
moon in Act I she conjured the grand lunar body in the sky with a wave of her
hand and she could even stop it temporarily in its slow march across the
backdrop as she sang. However, at the same time, we find out from
the Water Sprite in Act III that the damage was caused by a human. The Met’s
supertitles render his explanation to the nymphs: “A human has spoiled our
waters.” This is what I picked up on to explain Zimmerman’s transformation of
the opera into a subtle commentary on the human ability to sully nature and
bring ourselves down in the process.

Following the touching demise of the prince
who dies in the arms of his beloved nature goddess, I couldn't help but think
of the timeliness of the message for the world today. So much for the escapist
pleasures I experienced when the opera began. I was suddenly confronted with
one of the most pressing issues we face.

There is only one way to break the cursePhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Lei: I found the Third Act sets as the most irritating at
all. The sets here were just utterly trashed and dimly lit, as if they got
abandoned or vandalized. Seems a little bit of a stretch to me to put so much
emphasis on the line about humans spoiling waters, frankly. The idea there is
that the Prince spoiled Rusalka (who used to be a nymph made of water). Other
than Rusalka being distraught, the plot does not really justify a trashing of the
sets. I usually like it when the production demands some extra thinking from
the audience, unraveling interesting interpretations of a work. Take, for
example, Zimmerman’s take on Sonnambula, which I personally love.

The problem with this Rusalka production is
that it seemed to have some metatheatrical ambitions that were never fully
realized or fleshed out with any sort of conviction. The result was a
half-baked, cheap-looking staging. What a waste!

Lui: As one of the divas whom the Met is currently pushing, Kristine
Opolais is a stunningly beautiful singing-actress. She is a pleasure to
watch. After seeing her in several roles over the last couple of seasons,
however, she hasn't showed me that she a voice suited for the grand hall of the
house. It may very well be that she can vocally captivate an audience in some
of the smaller European houses that are more intimate in scale. I have yet to
be wowed by her sound here. She tackled the famous Song to the Moon
modestly well but it wasn't transporting, as is often the case with the other
roles in her repertory at the Met. As an actress she is more compelling. The
way she played the final death scene here was as moving as I have ever seen
her. It plays out much like the conclusion of the Manon Lescaut we saw
her in last season, only here I found her performance more emotionally
riveting.

Lei: Agree. I don’t see the fuss around
Kristine Opolais. She is definitely stunning but voice-wise she yet has to
convince me. In this case, however, it didn't hurt that she had a strong
leading man to play off against. Tenor Brandon Jovanovich as the Prince
was excellent. He carried the longing of this man who gets drawn into an
unusual relationship with ardor and vigor from beginning to end, but also
convincingly showing other colors. This Prince is also fickle and quick to
change his passions when they don’t go how he expects, falling for the easier
to understand “Foreign Princess.” He represents the human race as unreliable
and untrustworthy. But, he also comes back strong with heartfelt desperation as
he realizes his true love and dies in Rusalka’s arms. Soprano Katarina
Dalayman as the Foreign Princess was impressive, exceedingly loud in the
face of Rusalka’s silence, she displayed an exuberant larger-than-life vocal
performance, with fire and aggression that were a pleasure to hear.

Lui: Another impressive singer was mezzo Jamie
Barton in the role of the witch Jezibaba. This lady has a sound that is
luscious, enveloping and rich and this role seems to be written for her voice,
menacing yet so melodic. She also seemed to embody the harsh witch with gusto
and panache and just stole the show every time she was on stage.

The Water Sprite holds court in the woodland gladePhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

As the Water Sprite,
bass-baritone Eric Owens was thundering and authoritative, but suffered from
poor costume choices, as he was sporting a frog-like outfit that came across as
a caricature, at odds with the seriousness of his role.

The Met's previous production had a lushness this one lacksPhoto credit: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Lei: Mary
Zimmerman’s production is decidedly minimalist when compared to the lush Otto
Schenk production it rather unnecessarily replaces. It seems like a shame to
have retired it. Was it worn out or did that one belong to Renee Fleming, for
whom it served as a vehicle to her own notoriety as the great reviver of this
otherwise neglected masterpiece? In order to launch a new generation of rising
stars is perhaps explains why we needed something new, just not this one.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

A man goes down in this Rossini innovationPhoto credit: Opera Philadelphia

We can never get enough bel canto, so
when we heard that Opera Philadelphia was staging the rare Rossini opera seria Tancredi
with an intriguing cast, we seized the opportunity and made a Philly weekend
getaway out of it. When it comes to satisfying high quality opera tourism near
New York City, it turns out that Philadelphia is an excellent destination. It’s
a highly walkable city with great museum (Barnes Foundation!), a robust food
and drink scene and a well-balanced, quality opera program. The 2016/2017
season at Opera Philadelphia includes two contemporary works (Mazzoli’s Breaking
the Waves and a modern adaptation of Verdi’s Macbeth – same libretto
but new music by Fabrizio Cassol), two classics (Turandot and Nozze)
and the revival of a forgotten Rossini gem, Tancredi.

The Academy of MusicPhoto credit: Geoffrey Goldberg

In a burst of nerdiness, we got to the
Academy of Music one hour before the show, to catch an introductory talk, that
also gave us ample time to take in the stunning theater. Relatively small and
beautifully decorated, it felt like stepping back in time and being swept to a
historic European opera house. Interestingly, the 1857 theater is claimed to be
the oldest venue in the U.S. still used for its original purpose. Opera
Philadelphia seems to be doing a good job of luring crowds that are beyond the
usual octogenarian upper crust opera public. We are glad to report that the
Sunday matinee we attended had a very diverse set of patrons of all ages and
from all sorts of backgrounds. A lot of families with teenage kids, too – gotta
start them young!

Miscommunication belies the plotPhoto credit: Kelly & Massa

Now, about Tancredi. First things
first, a summary of the little known plot that isn’t exactly the tightest.
(Though to be fair it isn’t that crazy). Amenaide, a Siracusan Juliet-type,
sends a letter to her exiled love interest, Tancredi (who is traveling and
never receives the letter). Meantime Amenaide’s father makes peace with the
opposing family in town and betroths her to his previous enemy in an act of
good faith. She is reluctant to go along with the feudal arrangement, when the
letter that never arrived is intercepted near the external enemy’s camp and is
taken as proof of her treachery against her fatherland and family. Even
Tancredi (who suddenly pops up in Siracusa) takes it as such. Amenaide is
sentenced to death for treason (by decree of her own torn father!). However
Tancredi won’t abide by the sentence. He steps up to challenge her accuser and
betrothed in a duel to defend her honor. But getting her off the hook isn’t
enough to satisfy the stubborn and fearless Tancredi.

After defeating the evil internal villain,
Orbazzano, Tancredi takes his fight to the external enemy, the unseen Muslim
invader Solamir. Amenaide is desperate to express her gratitude and explain the
whole mix up of the mislaid letter but Tancredi won’t hear it. He’s on a
mission to win glory against the Saracens. And although (at least in this
version) he is mortally wounded in the skirmish, he nevertheless emerges the
victor. As the savior of the day, he dies triumphantly in his beloved’s arms
and the opera comes to an abrupt dramatic end with the quiet expiration of its
eponymous hero.

The action has been transposed to the early 20th CenturyPhoto credit: Kelly & Massa

A co-production of the Opera de Lausanne and
the Teatro Municipal de Santiago, in the vision of Spanish director Emilio
Sagi, the action has been transposed from the Middle Ages to the post-WWI
era in Europe. Costumes are all flashy military coats and flowy early twentieth-century
gowns, sets are dominated by a grandiose palace, all marble and mirrors with
the occasional art-deco flourish, all very handsome.

From the first notes of the overture, the
orchestra, under the baton of Corrado Rovaris, sounded tight and well
versed in Rossini’s fiery melodies that are always such a pleasure to hear,
notwithstanding the deja vu sensation at inevitably accompanies the
experience (given how much the composer recycled bits of his works,
particularly the overtures).

Just as I was thinking in the opening
movements of the opera that the sets looked great and that the supporting cast
seemed solid, mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe made her entrance as the
hero Tancredi and everything changed. She effortlessly elevated everything to a
whole other level. Her instrument is fluid, effortless and deeply melodic,
particularly in the lower range that borders on a contralto sound at times.
While Rossini has lots of mezzos in its operas, it’s pretty rare to see them in
pants roles, let alone as leading heroes. Blythe’s tessitura is impressive in
terms of power, color and agility. Her expressivity, too, was utterly moving.
Time stopped every time she opened her mouth, embodying the wronged noble
loving Tancredi with truly heroic tones. And could she ever fill the space with
her voice. It was stunning.

When the leading singer is so strong,
everybody else in the cast gets dwarfed a bit, no matter how good they are.
Tenor Michele Angelini in the role of Amenaide’s father Argirio, sounded
technically accurate with a handsome enough sound, however he never let his
vocal line really soar in the upper range and often came off as a bit
restrained, which is a pity as the beauty and excitement of bel canto
tenors lies also in those high explosions of emotions.

Soprano Brenda Rae as the heroine
Amenaide had some excellent moments, particularly when interacting in duets
with other characters, however she seemed to have a bit of a hard time with some
of the higher notes in her solo showstopping arias. Bass-baritone Daniel
Mobbs as the villain Orbazzano was a great grounding force, particularly in
the ensemble pieces, and took perhaps a bit too much pleasure in uttering an
evil laugh each time he walked off stage. Mezzo Allegra De Vita displayed
expressive agility as Amenaide’s friend Isaura.

All in all, Tancredi was a thoroughly
enjoyable bel canto opera. Perhaps not the most compelling plot (all
dramatic tension would dissipate if only Amenaide would have just told Tancredi
about the letter he never got) but it was definitely a great pleasure to hear,
with several exciting vocal moments. Through the introductory talk, we
discovered one important bit of opera history: who knew that this was the first
opera to end not with a summation finale with the sextet and chorus, all out on
the stage commenting on the action, but rather with a slow fade into death with
its abrupt dramatic resolution? What a discovery. I had recently been
reflecting on this shift in taste. Rusalka, Manon Lescaut, La
Bohéme among other gems in our recent outings all end in this fashion,
whereas L’italiana, Don Giovanni, the list could go on and on,
all close with a choral metanarrative moment. When did it all change? Turns out
it was Rossini’s Tancredi when the composer was only 21. Who knew?!

- Lei & Lui

The climactic death after which opera would never be the samePhoto credit: Kelly & Massa

Saturday, February 25, 2017

A sickly Claudius who just keeps refusing to diePhoto credit: Richard Termine

I never pass up an opportunity to catch some staged fiery baroque
opera. Agrippina, Handel’s semi-serious farce on the slow setting of the
sun on the emperor Claudius’s reign, is one of those oddities that you just
never know what to do with. It presents a slew of emotionally gripping serious
musical moments which are then juxtaposed to many of the classic opera buffa
tropes, some of which will make their way into Beaumarchais’ Figaro trilogy
and from there into Mozart and Da Ponte’s Nozze di Figaro.

Whereas Agrippina reigns supremePhoto credit: Hiroyuki Ito

Yet, Juilliard’s production of Agrippina was a beautifully crafted
and richly detailed little package delivered with explosive flair. Which should
come as no surprise since the show was directed by Heartbeat Opera’s Louisa
Proske, who has been rapidly building a solid track record of
detail-oriented, thoughtful and irreverent productions. The opera was staged in
the Wilson Theater, one of the small black box venues buried deep in the
labyrinthine studio space of the Juilliard School. The audience sat around a small sunken set
covered in overlapping red-hued oriental rugs and the orchestra played from a
platform above the rear of the “stage.” This setting provided a highly intimate
experience with excellent acoustics, where the few lucky spectators could
really focus on the action and the several show-stopping arias that are really
the best part of this opera.

The whole cast was impressive for being so young in terms of their
ability to nail this virtuosic baroque material with almost flawless Italian
diction. They all handled the highly melismatic coloratura of the score with
poise and skill and none of them were breathless in their pursuit of the period
orchestra under the direction of Jeffrey Grossman, which sounded great
yet not as muscular as my favorite renditions of Handel’s score.

Particularly impressive highlights were soprano Samantha Hankey
(as Agrippina) and the countertenor Jakub Jozef Orlinski (as Ottone).
Ms. Hankey reigned over the entire production grounding it in some semblance of
seriousness. She embodied a fiercely scheming, power-hungry woman who is
unstoppable in her aspiration of situating her son Nerone on the throne.
Vocally, she was impressive, particularly in Pensieri, voi mi tormentate.
Mr. Orlinski was particularly expressive and beautifully musical, all while
displaying a kinetic stage presence. At one point he literally did three back
flips consecutively in place that emphasized his exuberant joy when he realizes
Poppea does return his love. I guess that when you have a breakdancing
countertenor on hand, you have make the most of it.

The cast sported mostly awe-inspiring, eccentric costumes, sort of
a cross between ancient Roman regalia and high baroque swank, with some extra
glitter for good measure. Goth and steampunk elements were also slipped in
under the radar adding an odd note to the mix. Also, while I get the importance
of the many sexual tensions peppered through the plot, perhaps a giant
hand-shaped sex toy used by Poppea’s suitors to express their arousal was
probably a tad too much. On the other hand, Nerone crawling constantly out from
behind his mother between her legs made more sense as it was semi-sexual but
also emphasized his forever childishness which worked with plot and character.

All hail the Caesar!Photo credit: Voce di Meche

And so yes, Handel’s Agrippina is a farce masquerading as
semi-serious opera. With its tidy conclusion, it is a comedy of sorts. Some
have even called it an antiheroic satirical comedy for its reported commentary
on court intrigues of the time, most of which is lost on us now, as is the
goofy way that certain moments of operas like this one inevitably play out. While so
much of the music is so visceral, so grave and so serious, many story
elements and several plot points don’t really rise to the gravitas of the occasion to match.

Agrippina (right) deploys her powersPhoto credit: Hiroyuki Ito

The story hinges on a series of lies, with intersecting plots
carried out secretly. Everybody is tricking everybody else at one point. Much like
the count in Le nozze di Figaro, the emperor Claudius has designs to cheat on his
wife Agrippina with the loveliest lady-in-waiting, Poppea, who is in turn
desired by both Ottone and Nerone. In order to get the emperor to regain his
focus, Poppea, Agrippina and just about everybody else all choreograph their own
overlapping plots and schemes to achieve their various desired outcomes. The
shakedown and its accompanying recognition scene only come late and it culminates in a
happy ending with divine reconciliation piled on heavy.

All is well that ends well, except for the fact that Louisa Proske and her team decided to
saturate the scene with a quick final flash of blood red light once Nerone grabs the scepter of
power in the end, foreboding of what’s to come under the emperor’s dangerously childish
rule. And perhaps that was the moment where the political satire made itself
felt for audiences today – an extra flourish added by the production team that
portends terrible things when the emperor is little more than a man-child.

Thursday, February 2, 2017

It was (again) one of those evenings when the stage manager
appears at the front of the stage to a palpable gasp of despair from every
corner of the house. “Diana Damrau is recovering from a cold [pregnant pause]
and so is Vittorio Grigolo…” A ripple of shock swept through the audience: No!
The announcement continued, “and so they will be singing anyway. Enjoy the
performance.” Thank goodness these two lead singers are normally exceptionally
strong, which meant that despite their various states of convalescence, they
sounded great both individually and together. Since they often sing together,
the chemistry between them is evident.

Grigolo strikes his Romèo posePhoto credit: Met Opera

Tenor Vittorio Grigolo is one of the most thrilling super
divos to grace the Met stage of late. As per his usual, he chewed up the
scenery, or rather he climbed all over it. There was hardly a pillar or a
platform or a column that he didn’t run and jump and ramp up on. He literally
bounced off the sets embodying a romantic super-hero with a voice to match his
exuberant physical prowess. That soaring quality that we look for in a great
romantic tenor was definitely there, but his voice was deeper this time out,
chestier than I remember it. Perhaps that was due to the cold and if so it had
a pleasantly manlier side effect.

Grigolo chews up the sceneryPhoto credit: Met Opera

Grigolo had several moving moments, however he really took me by
storm, emotionally, when he bounded pensively across the stage toward Juliette’s
balcony in Act II to cry out, L’amour, l’amour!… Ah! lève-toi soleil.
Young love is at the center of the opera and this moment puts its earliest
gushing red flush in words, sets it to music. Grigolo’s boyish Neapolitan
charms were on full display. He’s also just a pleasure to watch, gigioneggiando
hither, thither and yon.

Soprano Diana Damrau often strikes the figure of a stately
dame on the operatic stage with an equally stellar vocal technique. She is a
master. Somehow in order to play the star-crossed young lover Juliette, she
came off as fully rejuvenated, fresh faced and bubbly. She threw herself into
the role energetically and with spunk. Even her costumes look great and were
very flattering of her figure. In one way or another every time she breezed
across the stage a cloud of muslin and gauze floated in a flurry all around
her. This Juliette was celestial also thanks to the aura of lightweight fabric
that always accompanied her. Damrau’s singing was also top notch, despite the
cold.

A grand dame rejuvenatedPhoto credit: Met Opera

Juliette’s famous waltz in Act I, Je veux vivre,was
self-assured, defiant and flirty at the same time. She intoned with exuberance
the verses in which she muses on girding herself against the assaults of love
in favor of living life on her own terms. Laisse-moi
sommeiller / Et respirer la rose, / Respirer la rose / Avant de l’effeuiller (Let me sleep and smell the rose, before despoiling
it). The imagery of savoring the rose, rather than seizing it, poses a subtle
affront to the classic carpe diem trope that has so often been employed
by young men to coax their ladies into love. Damrau’s body language very
cleverly sent one message while her words communicated another.

Mezzo-soprano Virginie Verrez sang a charming if not naïf
rendition of Stéphano’s one big aria in the second half of Act III. With its
refrain of Gardez bien la belle!, her take had less of an edge of
assault, and instead came off as more of an innocent, playful taunt. The
contrast was nevertheless felt inasmuch as it serves to introduce the climactic
duel that closes the act and ends in deaths on both sides of the factional
divide.

This is, of course, the time honored story about the tragic
star-crossed lovers of Verona. It’s first iteration dates back to Matteo
Bandello’s novella, which was probably written between 1531-1545 and which had
already been widely translated and imitated. Placed among his early works,
Shakespeare’s own version dates to the end of the 16th century, which then
provides the basis for the 1867 opera by Charles Gounod with a libretto by
Jules Barbier and Michel Carré.

At first encounter with the immaculately detailed sets designed by
Michael Yeargin for Bartlett Sher’s new production, it would seem
that the purists in the Met audience are finally getting what they always long
for: a hyper-realistic period piece with all the fixings. And they really allow
you to revel in the beauty of the scenery on stage. As you file into your seat the curtain
is already up so you can feast your eyes on the beautifully detailed depiction
of a very Veronese piazza with its palatial facades and abundant traces of
Roman relics including a single column set up in the middle of the square.

Love in the time of factionsPhoto credit: Met Opera

Once the show gets going, however, it becomes clear – primarily
only through the costuming decisions made by Catherine Yuber – that the
action has been set not in the early Italian Renaissance but rather it has been
updated to the 18th century. The Capulets are dressed in coats and stockings
that make them look more French, like the Bourbon monarchs who held power in
Italy and elsewhere in this period, than like Italians of the time. The
Montagues are dressed decidedly different. Romeo and his gang of hoodlums come
off as belonging to some kind of rebel class of slightly later Jacobin
revolutionaries sporting leather coats and frilly shirts unbuttoned (showing
off hunky pectorals). But aren’t we supposed to still be in Italy? What does
this production accomplish by setting the story of these two timeless lovers
against the tensions of later (French?) political classes?

A world in which poetry and violence collidePhoto credit: Met Opera

The program notes tell us that the choice was to set the story in
a “mythical Verona” that would represent “a beautiful but dangerous world where
poetry or violence might erupt at any moment.” There was also some intended
reference to Fellini’s Casanova but did not seem to fully work with the
overall plot. While the sets may have been Italianate, the costumes were
decidedly French. They seemed to pit the ancien régime off against a
clan of Jacobin-looking revolutionaries, Capulets and Montagues, respectively.

The Met orchestra sounded terrific and from the moment that it
launched into the big tragic chords of the overture to Gounod’s romantic
masterpiece under the baton of Gianandrea Noseda, the turmoil and tumult
rocking the world outside slowly faded away. Mind you it doesn’t turn out well
for anybody involved. While in the play the tragedy leads to the reconciliation
of the feuding families, Gounod’s version closes on the couple expiring
together, which is a more definitive and dramatic ending, certainly more
fitting for the operatic form.